


Let's go home

by thewallflower07



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895, Comfort, Cuddling, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fever Dream, Ficlet, Hallucinations, Hospital, Hurt!Sherlock, Johnlock-Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, POV Lestrade, Post-Season/Series 03, Psychological Torture, Restraints, Snuggling, Torture, mentions of torture, protective!John, season 4 is not real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-25 02:38:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14967308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewallflower07/pseuds/thewallflower07
Summary: Lestrade is driving John to the hospital and helps him bring a heavily injured Sherlock home.In a flashback Mary had kidnapped Sherlock and played her cruel tricks on him. Sherlock is walking through a weird London where nothing is logical and he sees a John Watson he no longer recognizes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my short ficlet for the Always 1895 Prompt June 2018: The Science of Snuggles and because it's me it's full of angst! I hope you enjoy reading.
> 
> EDIT: 11.07.2018  
> I added a second chapter explaining the backstory of the events from the first chapter.  
> Hope the flashback is not too confusing.

Their ride from Baker Street to the hospital was tense and silent. Greg occasionally glanced at his passenger, who was leaning with his head against the window. John had deep eye bags and frowned, but his hand was perfectly steady, his gaze determined, focused on his goal.  
Lestrade thoughts wandered back to the last month. No one had bothered to fill all the gaps for him yet, but he wasn’t a Scotland Yard detective for nothing. Contrary to what Sherlock believes, he is able to make some dedications on his own. In this case however, he hopes the two men will leave him in the dark. Whatever happened, Sherlock first disappeared and then had to spent the last days in the hospital and John had barely left his side, with yesterday the only exception. Greg suspected that John had business with his ex-wife to tend to. Speaking of Mary, he hadn’t seen her in a while. Not that he cared much about her, but with Sherlock Holmes, you never knew where people might end up. She could be in a high-security prison for all he knows, guarded personally by Sherlock’s strange older brother. Mycroft also had disappeared from the face of the earth. John hadn't mentioned either of them yet, and Greg feared the worst. No one in their close friend circle (Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson) had particularly liked Mary, but the presence of the older Holmes, while often overbearing, also radiated a sense of safety. 

At this point only the prime minister and the Queen of England would know the whole truth.  
  
Well, hopefully Sherlock would answer some of his questions. He was probably already terrorizing the poor hospital stuff, demanding to go home or at least to get better food. Lestrade had spent two days in a clinic once and after he got home he immediately stuffed everything left in his fridge into his mouth. Sherlock was released today, so maybe he would do the same, although it’s weird to see the detective eating.  
Him getting discharged is actually the reason Lestrade is here. John had called him yesterday, late in the evening. Greg had just returned from his fourth date with Molly, something Sherlock still didn’t know about. Hah! John had asked him if he could drive them both back to Baker Street, and Greg happily said yes. He missed them at his crime scenes, it was way too quiet without their nagging. Meeting them more often now would definitely be good news.

His car rolled into the parking lot, and he turned to John.  
  
“Do you want to go ahead to his room while I look for an empty spot?“  
  
The doctor nodded, left the car and hit the door a bit too forcefully. Really, the people who think that Sherlock is only rude one have it very wrong.  
  
As always, finding an empty spot was an absolute nightmare. It took him twenty minutes and then another ten minutes to find the right hospital room.  
Sherlock’s bed was in the left corner next to a big window. John was standing in front of it, obscuring the patient from his view, while he was arguing with the annoyed looking doctor.  
Lestrade walked into the room without either of the two noticing him. He walks around the bed to finally greet the detective.  
  
“The patient was behaving very aggressive towards my staff. He didn’t follow any of my instructions and was unable to calm down. We decided to use a more drastic approach and used a heavy sedative to keep him down.“  
  
“Sherlock dislikes hospitals and doesn’t trust easily. He is in a lot of pain and after what he went through it’s only natural that he is scared!“

Jesus, John sounded angry. His face has become an alarming shade of red, and he glared at the man in front of him. The other doctor clutched his notebook to his chest, but stood his ground.  
John took one step closer to the bed, leaned down and, from what Lestrade could see, took Sherlock’s hand into his.  
  
“Doctor Watson, I have studied the medical files of your friend. We had to use more heavy medication to ensure that he doesn’t hurt himself further. As for the reason of his injuries, I don’t have any information, because someone doesn’t give me any!“  
  
“As a doctor you can deduce the reason of his injuries. Look at your patient! Didn’t you think for one second that it’s not wise to restrain a victim of torture?“  
  
Wait, torture? Now he wanted to know what happened even less! 

Lestrade had reached the other end of the room and stood next to John. At first Greg could only follow John’s arm to where his strong fingers clutched Sherlock’s pale hand. Then he let his eyes wander to the rest of the consulting detective, and he felt more ill with every moment.

Brown leather restraints were applied around his arms and legs, restricting his movement to a minimum. They were wrapped around his wrist and ankles and tied to the side of the bed. Greg could hear John preparing with the doctor Sherlock’s discharge, but Lestrade could only focus on Sherlock's face that resembled a ghost.  
The detective was even more pale than usual, his face gaunt and cheeks hollow, lips bloodless. Someone had shaved his unruly curls to a short, prison-like hairstyle. There was a yellow bruise under his cheekbone and a deep cut on his upper lip. Both eyes were sluggishly held open by pure will, rolling around the room until finally stopping on John. Sherlock always looked at the doctor like he was the only person in the room, the only important noteworthy person on this planet, and today was no different.  
  
Two fingers on Sherlock’s left hand began stroking John’s hand, which startled the doctor into interrupting the discussion and stooping down into Sherlock’s eye view. The detective blinked at him, which prompted John into a smile. Greg took discreetly a step back, he didn’t want to crowd them.  
John stroked Sherlock’s white face and said a final sentence to the other doctor, who left the room in long strides. The retired soldier then started to unbuckle the restraints around his friends limbs. They had left faint red marks around his skin. Next, he ripped out the IV tube which elicited a moan out of Sherlock. The detective began to shake in the narrow hospital bed, and John rubbed his arm and shushed him, promising him more pain killers at home. When John whispered something into Sherlock’s ear and kissed his forehead, Lestrade has to avert his eyes. The whole scene was so strangely emotional, so intimate, that he felt like a rude intruder.  
  
“Greg, can you get the clothes out of my bag? I want to dress him.“ John starts rubbing some much needed warmth into Sherlock's bony arms.  
  
“Sure.“

Lestrade found a pair of black sweatpants and a blue hoodie in John's old army bag. They looked like comfortable and warm clothes, but certainly nothing Sherlock would have chosen for himself.  
In the meantime John had raised the upper part of the bed and carefully wrestled the white hospital gown over Sherlock’s thin shoulders. Lestrade caught a glimpse of more large bruises on his arms and chest, and even more worrying, two burns over his ribs. Christ, what have those monsters done to him?  
John positioned the detective, who suddenly looked so small, on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the hoodie and pulled it over Sherlock’s shaved head. Then he started undressing his pants, which prompted Lestrade to leave the room for a moment, not wanting to barge into their privacy. They didn’t notice him leaving, they were way too focused on each other and Sherlock was thankfully gaining some clarity back in his eyes.  
It didn’t take long until John called him back in. Sherlock was completely dressed, and only then did Greg notice the weird way he holds his legs. They didn't look broken, they looked mangled. The doctor was standing between his legs and cradled Sherlock's head, fingers carefully brushing over the fragile cheekbones, avoiding the bruise. The detective led out a painful whimper and John cupped the back of his head and pressed him into his wollen jumper. Sherlock's body was wrecked by a hard shake and he only calmed down when his doctor began caressing his back.

Sherlock should really stay a few more days in hospital, but John seemed determined to bring him back to Baker Street. Probably to take better care of him. Mrs Hudson's biscuits would also help.   
  
John stepped again in front of Sherlock, shielding him from any view. The doctor was always very protective of Sherlock, but now he is even more so, building a wall between them and everyone else. Maybe not only a result of whatever happened to the detective, but also because he couldn’t be there for him yesterday, when he had to suffer through a panic attack, was drugged and then pinned down onto the hard mattress. John muttered something to Sherlock, which actually made him smile a bit, before curling his arms around the thin waist of the detective. Sherlock put his own arms around John's neck and Lestrade could hear a low “Ready?“, when John lifted Sherlock’s body in his arms, one arm under his knees, the other around his upper chest. Carrying the detective should not look so easy, considering he was two heads taller than John, but the retired soldier had become rather fit and his patient was thinner than ever.  
  
Sherlock curled into him and hides his face in John’s shoulder. Greg was pretty sure that there are enough wheelchairs in this hospital, but Sherlock’s looked mostly at peace now, although he was still shaking from the pain.  
John’s eyes searched for Lestrade’s, and he nodded at him.  
  
“Let’s go home.“  
  
Sherlock sighs into John’s shoulder and the doctor’s lips brushes over his short dark hair. The soldier marched out of the now completely empty room, his charge safely in his arms. Lestrade followed. He would ask for an explanation another day. It was clear to him, that whoever brutalized Sherlock, had already met a brutal end in the hands of the clever doctor.  
  
He just had to remember not to mention any of this at the Yards next pub evening, though no one would believe him anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary has kidnapped and drugged Sherlock for days. Sherlock has weird hallucinations about a baby, a secret sister and a John Watson he doesn't recognize anymore. Fortunately the real John Watson is on his way for the rescue, always prepared to protect and heal the love of his life.
> 
> Please read the warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an unplanned sequel to "Let's Go Home", my fic for the #Always1895 June writing prompt. Some people asked for more chapters and I started to get interested too. 
> 
> I also have watched Season 4 only on time, on the day they aired (and actually stopped watching TFP after five minutes), so please forgive any mistakes. Sherlock is just very drugged.
> 
> I was "inspired" by the Q&A mockery from Moffat and Gatiss. They call the works of Arthur Conan Doyle their bible but have no problem writing a John Watson who cheats on his wife, who returns and forgives said wife after she nearly kills Sherlock, a John Watson beats Sherlock Holmes bloody, a weird redemption arc for an assassin, a baby that somehow disappears very often, a Mary Morstan who tells the boys it's not important who they are, and a stupid parody of the fandom-loved Garridebs scene. And I didn't even mention the Shutter Island and the secret sister who can do mind control like an X-Men and is apparently worthy of forgiving.  
> At the end of Season 4, I just wanted Sherlock away from all of these toxic people who only hurt him. He needs a therapist who teaches him some self-love.  
> Thank god we have fanfiction for that!

**A few days before...**

 

It’s amazing how much pain a human being can survive without breaking down. The human body was amazing, the human brain was even more amazing, and all these amazing things put together, adding jumpers, blond hair with a grey hairline, a hidden gun, warm blue eyes and an open smile, that could transform into a deadly gaze in an instant, adding all these amazing parts together, combined, was John Watson.

  
Sherlock had met many people in his thirty-six years, and most of them were a bit not good. There were his parents, his smart mother and his quiet dad, both very loving, but ultimately not understanding him. There was Mycroft, his brother, his role model for a long time, joining a government that spied on his citizens, giving him terrible life advices. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.  
  
There was Victor Trevor, his first and for a long time only friend, until he moved with his family to America. There was Sebastian Wilkes and his friends, taunting him at every corner in university. There were numerous people he met on the streets, when he was homeless and constantly drugged. Sometimes kind, sometimes helpful, often pushy and annoying, leering at him, trying to touch him.  
  
The cases saved him from that existence, the cases and Lestrade. The DI had promised him work if he got off the drugs, had allowed him to use his couch and shower on several occasions, and had read crime fails out loud for him while he was going to withdrawal.  
  
Then, of course, Mrs. Hudson. He went to Florida originally to find Victor Trevor, he wasn’t sure why, didn’t allow himself to think about this kind of sentiment (Sentiment is a weakness, Sherlock.). He saw her first a gas station, and the rest was history.  
After her abusive husband was sentenced to death, Mrs. Hudson returned to England and moved back into her former flat. 221 Baker Street. When Sherlock’s landlord threw him out after a particular loud explosion, he moved happily into the cosy flat upstairs.  
  
Mike Stamford came to him at Barts a few weeks later and introduced him to the miracle of John Watson.

Sherlock would do everything for him (except maybe buying the milk, because honestly, how boring), for John’s safety and his happiness. That why he didn’t think much about jumping from the roof of St. Barts hospital. It was only logical. The world needed John Watson, Sherlock needed him, and after all, he would be back soon.  
  
Except he wasn’t. It took him 18 months, and every step further away from London, from Baker Street, from Scotland Yard, from home, from John Watson was pure agony.  
  
He was taught a different kind of agony in a dark cellar in Serbia, chained to the walls, being beaten to a pulp. Sherlock would never admit it, but he would have died in that cold room, his body forever gone, no closure for his parents, if it weren’t for his insufferable big brother. Mycroft had saved him, under the ruse of a terror attack in London, but after nearly two years of undercover, Sherlock knew better. His brother had missed his own goal, he had allowed himself one weakness in his life, and tragically it was Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock had understood that too late. Magnussen knew it of course, that cold-eyed shark (Contrary to popular belief, he had never killed before, and it weighted heavily on his soul. Still, everything for John Watson).  
  
Mary knows it too.

 

* * *

  
  
Mary silently hummed to herself while she was waiting for the kettle to boil. The small room she had been hiding in for three days now was sparsely decorated. It had a small bed, pushed in the middle of the room, a kitchen, a bathroom with a toilet and a basin and table with a chair next to it. The table is the only furniture she added to the room, and strapped to the table is her reason for being so satisfied with herself.  
  
It had been almost too easy to kidnap Sherlock Holmes. One of Mycroft’s man had driven her home, after the detective tried to overdose on the plane and the video on Moriarty was broadcast all over the country. Mary still had no idea who did that. Probably Mycroft, to save his precious brother from being exiled. Her husband had arrived a day later, kissed her on the cheek and made her dinner.  
  
John Watson had become better in concealing his emotions, in acting, but never good enough for her. She caught the loathing in her eyes every time the doctor looked at her. His hand had been perfectly calm.  
That’s when she knew she was trapped. After all, Mycroft Holmes would never let the killer of his baby brother ran free, and John Watson, as always, had chosen Sherlock’s side. They would watch her until the baby’s birth date was due, and then they would throw her into some high-security prison.  
Well, good luck with that.

Mary had waited another three days before leaving the fake belly on her bed, send Sherlock a message from John’s phone (the soldier should have been more careful with that) and left the flat through the bathroom window. Her husband was asleep on the couch in their living room, again unable to be in her presence.  
  
She had planned this after she had heard the news that Sherlock miraculously survived her bullet. A bolthole and enough of the Devil’s Foot hallucinogen that would knock a man out for several days. Supplied by the always helpful Culverton Smith.  
  
Her tea is finally ready. Mary carefully carried her mug to the table and sat down on the chair.  
  
Sherlock Holmes had actually come to her. Oblivious and unarmed. Too trusting and blind until the end. She had knocked him out with a first shot of the drug and two helpful boys had helped her carry him into the room.  
  
Mary had strapped him onto the table with long belts and ropes that cut into his pale flesh. She had discarded his ridiculous coat, his dark jacket and the polished shoes. The detective looked deliciously exposed without his armour. An IV bag with the precious hallucinogen was hanged on back of the chair and had carried the substance into his arm for over 50 hours now. Another one had been added to get some fluids into him. Mary didn’t want him to die too soon.  
  
The thing she was most proud of however where the short bricks that she had fastened under Sherlock’s feet, putting them up. She had used the ropes and belts to hold his legs in place, bound to the table, putting them into a very uncomfortable and dangerous position. This torture method was called the Tiger Bench, and Mary had found it on Google. After all, she had to give him a new challenge, Serbia must have been too easy.  
  
She was confident that he would feel the pain through the medication.

The detective let out a whimper when she pushed a curl from his sweaty forehead. He had started to develop a slight fever in the last ten hours. She had to be careful not to overdose him. Fascinated Mary dragged her fingers through his thick curls. What was so special about him that he caught John Watson attention more than she ever could. Her eyes wandered to his tightly shut eyes and his screwed shut mouth. Janine had called him pretty, but Mary always thought he looked rather weird. His eyes were too confusing, his plush mouth too feminine. The posh accent was used to further put people down and his hair had to take hours to curl that way. At least this was what John had once told her, when he was drunk. How it took him hours and hours to get ready, blocking the bathroom.  
The longer she thought about that episode, the more annoyed she got. Mary got up, took a knife from the kitchen drawer and then started to cut through the hair, curls landed on the floor, and she kicked them under the table. She went on for a few minutes until his hair was much shorter. Mary admired her work for a moment, before she cut through his lips with a determined slash. The man under her groaned and convulsed on the table. A few blood drops were now on his face. Mary laid the knife next to his arm and sat down again. She felt a bit better, but no way satisfied. Her eyes focused on his face again. Sherlock had started to shake, and she wondered what he was dreaming about. Certainly nothing good.

 

* * *

  
  
_He thought he was asleep._  
_He couldn’t be asleep._

_John has his hair slicked back and was wearing a dark shirt with stripes. He looked good, but he also didn't look very **John** anymore_

_John Watson was driving his screaming wife who was about to give birth to the hospital and for some reason he was sitting next to her. Why was he not the one driving? Since when could John drive?_  
  
_Why was there a shark in the tunnel?_  
  
_It was a healthy girl and Mary named her Rosamund Mary. John wanted to name her Katherine, after his grandmother, but John never really wanted a child. Why would Mary choose such a traditional name? There was a christening and Sherlock was… tweeting. Why was he tweeting? Aside from researching for cases, he never used social media. He couldn’t look at Mary, sitting there with the child, looking smug. He needed a barrier. Protect yourself, Sherlock. He will never want you now._  
  
_Why was John writing his blog on a jpeg. File?_  
  
_John and Mary were sleeping on the couch in Baker Street, and he threw a rattle at himself._  
  
_There was also a cute dog which was the only good thing that happened in all this chaos. Toby ended up a bit useless in the end, but he was such a good boy. John was carrying the baby around. He presents himself like a modern, working father._

 _Did John ever want children?_  
  
_Why are his legs throbbing?_  
  
_Someone destroyed Thatcher statues, and he was totally okay with that. There was a drawn-out fight in a pool and through a window and his hair looked horrible and there was Mary who drugged him. For his and John’s own good, apparently. If she was his friend, why would she drug him, an addict?_

_Her past had caught up with her actions. There were a few weeks of calm, when he and John cared for the baby, that Mary had abandoned. There was a long flight to Morocco. Someone shot at them and Mary ran away while Sherlock ran to John. This was supposed to be meaningful. He would do everything for John Watson._

_Why was Mary so much around him. Were they truly friends? Of course he forgave her for shooting him, John **loved** her (her, not him) and he would do everything to stay in John's good grace, to make him happy. _ _Everything. Even forgive his would-be murderer._

_Her open, wide smile was unnerving. She looked so happy, so confident. Mary had become a substitute for John. It was supposed to be **their** story. Not hers. _

_He failed. He failed, and he failed, and he failed again and again and again. Mary was dead. She jumped in front of a bullet meant for him, which was frankly impossible and also didn’t make sense, but really, nothing made sense any more. Mary was dead, the child had lost her mother and John was making cow noises._  
  
_There was a letter that burned the hateful words into his skin. He doesn’t know what was in the letter, but John didn’t want to see him any more. Molly (since when has she enough time to babysit the child?) had doubled down on the 'anyone'. It seemed cruel of her, but Sherlock didn't deserve any better._

 _It was Sherlock’s fault that Mary died. She saved him but it was his fault because he wasn’t worthy enough to live. That is what John thinks, anyway._  
  
_John Watson hates me, he hates me he hates me he hates me. So many things didn’t make sense anymore, but he could easily believe why John Watson could hate him. It was a miracle the doctor ever accepted him into his life anyway._

 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock had grown paler and paler over the last two hours. Mary had made herself another cup of tea and now played with the buttons on the detectives white shirt. The man was sweaty, shaking and whimpering every few minutes.  
  
His cavalry had not arrived yet. Maybe big brother was really getting slow. John had always spoken about Mycroft with a annoyed tone, had called him an overbearing, smug git. Once Mary had asked why he hated Mycroft so much when he and Sherlock were so similar. That was when the detective was still dead. They had a huge fight after her comment.  
  
Mary should have known. Even if Sherlock had died after his jump, she would always have been the substitute. Never equal to a dead man. Later, there were three people in her marriage.  
  
Her thoughts got interrupted by a pained whisper from her captive. His bleeding lips were moving, saying JohnJohnJohn over and over again, like a prayer.  
  
“He is not coming, dear.“  
  
Sherlock wouldn’t shut up, so she slapped him, hard. The name changed into another snivel and there were now goosebumps on his arms. Mary sighed and got up again to get a towel. She wrenched his mouth open and pushed it into his mouth, tapping him of with tape. This would shut him up, she just had to be careful if he started to choke.

 

* * *

 

  _He was now drugged all the time. He supposedly had a case he was working on. There was a kind woman with glasses and blond hair, and they wandered around London. She wanted to kill herself, and he could understand her all too well. There was a can of beer in his shaking hand._  
  
_This is what John Watson did to him. Sherlock couldn’t even end his own life without being full of guilt._  
  
_He had frightened Mrs Hudson, which was quite unacceptable, and she had stuck him into the car boot. The darkness in there reminded him too much of a Serbian prison and breathing became difficult. His legs were rolled uncomfortably together and oh god, they burned. He wanted to scream, but he wasn’t able too. Like something was stuck in his throat._  
  
_John saw the track marks on his arms and Molly gave him his death sentence. It was weird how Molly sometimes popped up just to disappear after a few moments. Was she still harbouring that ridiculous crush on him? He thought she had been over that after Reichenbach. They were supposed to become friends._  
  
_Where was the baby? Who was caring for her? No one knows, and apparently, no one cares._  
  
_Later he shot up in a hospital and John didn’t care. A nurse was babbling about the famous blog, which was awkward, a relict of the past. John has abandoned his blog, their friendship and their life together. Nothing left. Sherlock had burned it all down, and John had left. Like he should. It was too dangerous to be around a crazy addict._  
_There were no longer Sherlock and John, although Sherlock didn’t understand how that happened, except Mary was dead and there was also a baby?_  
  
_They confronted Culverton Smith and John still didn’t believe him. He beat him into a pulp until his face was bleeding, and he was crying. He never thought John would do this to him. John had always protected him from the bad guys, and now he was kicking him into his ribs. He was crying. This was_  
  
_wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong._  
_wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong._  
_wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong._  
_wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong._  
  
_John Watson was his abuser, and he was his volunteering victim._  
  
_He had to accept it. The gentle and warm and amazing John Watson was gone, replaced by an imposter, with wild eyes, a grieving heart and bruised knuckles._  
  
_Sherlock and John was gone. The world was on it’s head. Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, so many faces in different times and places. This was not how it’s supposed to be._  
  
_A serial killer had to stop John from killing him. Hours later the same serial killer throttled him and John supposedly saved him, but now Sherlock had stopped trying to make sense of all of it. He stopped after John’s fists, once used to patch up his wounds and caress his face, pummelled his battered body._

 _There was a hug, and he comforted John when he actually wanted to break down himself. He wished that John would ask for his forgiveness, comfort him, hug him._  
  
_Then Baker Street exploded and weirdest of all, a secret sister. Sherlock didn’t care any more, he just wanted everything to end. The baby was back but John Watson was not at Baker Street. Nothing made sense and Sherlock didn’t deserve any happiness. He understood it now. He felt nauseated._ He _deserved John’s fist and his anger and Molly’s slaps and the torture in Serbia and the nicely put bullet from Mary._  
  
_What was happening._  
_Why is any of this happening._  
_Why is the baby sometimes there and so often missing._

 _Why would he delete his sister_  
_and transform his friend into a dog._  
_ Where did the glass go._  
_Why would Mycroft and John just stand there when he was preparing to shoot himself in the head._  
_Why does all of this remind him of those stupid action movies John used to force him to watch._  
_How did they get John out of that well._  
_Why was he ignoring his ‚Vatican Cameos‘._  
_Why was his mother saying that he was always the grown-up one._  
_ Why would his parents go through will all of this._  
_ Why was he playing the violin with his rapist, abusive sister, who apparently could mind-control everyone around her._  
_ Why did Mary suddenly became his partner-in-crime._  
_Who decided that naming one’s child after a famous assassin was a good idea._  
_Why did his knee break._  
_Why were his legs still on fire, can’t someone extinguish it._  
_ Why was he strapped on a hard surface._  
_ Why did John forgive Mary for shooting him when he had sworn to always protect him? Why would John just watch him shooting up? Why would John think that he deserves his assault?_  
  
_There was only one explanation to all of this. John Watson never really liked him. Somehow, Sherlock always knew. He was needed for the excitement and danger he could provide, but never worth more. He deserved all the bad things that happened to him. The simple thought that John would ever love him is absurd._  
  
_Maybe he was still in Serbia. Maybe Mycroft would arrive soon, to rescue him. Maybe it had all been a long dream. Maybe they would kill him. He prefers that option, actually. Let them believe he really died on that roof, nearly two years ago. Him dying was kinder._  
When he opens his eyes and sees blond hair and blue eyes above him, he throws ups.

 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock suddenly started to throw up. Mary cursed and ripped the towel out of his mouth and pushed his head to the side. Some vomit landed on the floor before the detective’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell unconscious once more. Mary groaned and cleaned the waste away before the smell would become too bad. She probably had used too much of the hallucinogen, but she didn’t feel the need to stop now. A few seconds before the vomiting, the Tiger Bench finally did what was promised and broke the detectives left knee. With some luck, the other knee would break soon too. He wouldn’t be able to walk again for a very long time. Good luck John, she thought, with all the therapy he is going to need!

Well, John and Mycroft would be here in about two or three hours anyway. She could use the remaining time to have some fun.  
Her hands slid experimentally down his trousers. Nothing above average, but her touch clearly sickened him, and that made gleeful. She grabbed his limp cock and tugged a bit. Mary didn't want him to get hard, to receive any kind of pleasure from her. She didn't have to worry. The man jerked again and tried to throw her off, but his legs only buckled against the restraints. She slapped him, once, twice, a third time, until he stopped and sacked back. Tears were running down his face and his lips were moving. No sound came out of it. Mary laughed. Sherlock looked broken like this, with that messed up hair cut, cut lip and drugged for days. She had done this in such a short time. It was too easy.  
She tried to look at the crying man through John’s eyes, to maybe find out why her husband is so obsessed him. That is one thing she will never understand. Janine once described him as “pretty“ and Mary couldn’t have disagreed more.  
Mary grabs her knife and quickly cuts a “M“ into his thighs. Sherlock let out a short scream, and she hit him again. Satisfied with herself, she dresses him again and ups the doses of the hallucinogen. It is time to end this.  
  
Her victim had fallen unconscious again. Mary Morstan gets her bag and her jacket and has one last look at Sherlock Holmes. As a final cruelty, she stuffs the flannel back into his mouth. Let’s hope that John and the brother will arrive in time, she thinks, before leaving the flat. A cab is waiting in front of the house to take her to the airport. Mary smiles. She has fulfilled her goal, it is time to wreak havoc somewhere else.

 

* * *

 

 John Watson never believed in God. In his childhood he and Harry were dragged to dozens of church services on Sunday morning, but they always spent the long hours whispering insults or jokes at each other, depending on the day. In the desert of Afghanistan he abandoned any last thought of the existence of a God. Whatever brought him later into the warm rooms of 221b Baker Street must be someone higher-up though. Surely a single man couldn’t be so lucky to meet Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Over four years after that faithful meeting in the morgue, he and Mycroft made a deal at the Diogenes club. John would return to the house in the suburbs and play the loving husband, while Mycroft would try finding a connection between Moriarty and Mary, or whoever she was.  
They both agreed that Sherlock couldn’t know. Mary could tell when he was lying.  
Then the tarmac happened, the near fatal overdose and the mysterious video from the criminal mastermind. One of Mycroft’s henchmen drove Mary to their house and John brought Sherlock home.  
  
His hopefully soon home.  
  
The detective was babbling about an Emily and ghosts while John snuggled him into the detectives bed. He could use a nap himself, but he didn’t want to fall asleep in case Sherlock needed him. He already failed him once, one month into his disastrous marriage. He didn’t want to fail him again.  
  
John did.  
  
When he woke up a few days later and found only that weird fake belly and not his previously heavily-pregnant wife, he knew immediately what she must have planned to do.  
A few calls confirmed his terrible suspicion. He drove to Mycroft’s home, who looked way to pale for an ice-man, and they waited.  
  
John spent three horrible days wandering around this way too big house, cursing everyone he saw, and hated himself most of all. What would his wife do with Sherlock? Maybe she already killed him, maybe his body was lying in the Themse like so much rubbish.  
He had to stop at that point, the idea became too much.  
  
“We should have seen it! Of course, she wouldn’t just let it go.“  
  
“If you were better at acting we wouldn’t be in this situation right now!“  
  
“If you were better at planning I wouldn’t have to act!"  
“Sir, we found them."  
  
Off they went.  
  
“I trust you will be able to handle him?“  
  
John stared at Mycroft’s serious expression, and nodded.  
  
“Very well, because I am going to find the woman we know as Mary Watson, and make her answer for her many crimes.“  
  
“Her name is Mary Morstan.“  
  
Mycroft steps into another black car and disappears, while John races through the city. He wonders why the big brother didn’t want to see Sherlock with his own eyes, until he realizes the truth.  
Mycroft believes that Mary has already killed Sherlock, and he doesn’t want to see his brothers body. John bites his lips and hits the gas pedal. He starts praying for another miracle.  
Whatever state Sherlock was in, John would bring him home.  
  
When he finally kicked open the bolted door and saw the love of his life lying motionless on that fucking table, he swore to everyone that could hear him that he would avenge his fallen friend. Thinking about revenge was better than coming to terms with the grief that was threatening to overwhelm him. Again. The 18 months would only be a taste of the many years that were left in his life, because he would mourn this amazing man, this combination of handsomeness and cleverness, the soft curls and full lips and colourful eyes and the smart brain and the long legs and the pale skin and his sexy voice and his catlike walking and his fast deductions and the swirling of his coat and his beautiful laughter and their movie nights and his experiments in the fridge and their talks at breakfast and the way Sherlock said his name like he was the only person that mattered in this world, this amazing man who called the stars beautiful while looking at him, he would mourn Sherlock until his last breath, when he would finally die.

Sherlock makes a muffled sound through the cruel gag in his mouth. It sounded like 'John'. His name on those beautiful lips and it felt like salvation. He was alive. John hurried to the table and reached out his shaking hands to touch the detectives face. Silent tears were running down his pale cheeks. His whole body started shaking, and John made nonsensical but hopefully soothing sounds, trying to distract him. Mycroft's team would be here soon, they could help him. Especially his legs looked weirdly disfigured. John presses his forehead to Sherlock's, closes his eyes and just  **listens**.  
  
For now, nothing was more important that Sherlock Holmes was breathing, he was badly hurt, and he was drugged and bleeding and crying and John cut through the ropes, ripped away the gag and the needles, and there he was, Sherlock Holmes was looking at him again, and oh, they were both so broken, but at last the sun would shine on them again. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More informations on the Tiger Bench, a gruesome torture device (I was goggling some of those after I saw a documentary about Guantanamo): http://en.minghui.org/html/articles/2004/6/12/49036.html
> 
> There will probably another chapter, where the two can talk, take a holiday in Sussex and finally kiss properly. Just not now. Maybe sometime in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to leave a comment or give kudos!  
> I would love to write a fanfiction with someone, if you are interested please tell me.


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